One of the Family: Milton Startley
by Galimatias
Summary: This is just a chapter written by me to show a possobility of the next chapter in One of the Family by Lauramebob.


**For anyone who read it, you should. One of the Family by Lauramebob was a great story, but it was left hanging for a little while. Fortunitally she told me that it will be updated very soon, something I was very pleased to hear, since I did love her story quite a lot. But until then I decided to write my interpertation of the chapter that would be put right after where she left off. And once again, if you havent read it, you should. It isnt too long, it's a great read and if you dont you will have no idea of what this is about. And no, I'm not giving you a recap of what happened in the story. Why? Because recaps are for lazy people who refuse to read good storys! So enjoy!**

* * *

98 mph. That was how fast Milton Startley had been going. 98 mph. It wasn't as if he wasn't being careful though. He was. He had taken extra precautions. His seat belt was on. He had on is lucky t-shirt and baseball cap, the faded red one with the words "Trucker 4 Life" sewn on it. His headlights were on, or at least the one that hadn't burst was still alive and shining brightly. Or flickering. It was more of a flicker now.

But of course you could never be too careful. Milton Startley looked at the time and nodded. It was very late, almost three in the morning now. And this was when most of the accidents happened. He knew. He had lost a few friends, some truckers and some not, who had all fallen asleep at the wheel. He had been to too many funerals not to be careful. So his stereo blasted ACDC and his cup holder bore a red bull.

He hadn't even had a beer that night.

At least, he hadn't had more then two.

But Milton Startley never worried about things like that. He was a trucker. And too be a trucker you had to be good at what you did. And he was a good driver, he could handle him self.

Milton Startley rubbed his eyes. The red bull certainly was doing its job. He took another swig of it, cherishing its taste and waiting for its results.

He cut the corner by the rail, narrowly missing falling into the bog.

Milton Startley changed the channel as one of the bands slower songs came on. He couldn't have anything slow on. The buzz of static was on for no more then a second as the antenae searched for a signal. Finally it reached something, putting an anouncers voice through the speakers, telling the listners about the name and artist of the next song. Something hard rock came on, the kind where the song is just one note played at different volumes and the lyrics were little more then a scream. He took another swig of the red bull and wiped off his mouth with a rather large forearm.

He went over a speed bump, making sure he slowed down to at least 87 mph as he did. After all, Milton Startley _was_ a top-notch driver.

Milton Startley checked the clock. It was late, almost 3 A.M. He chuckled to himself. But not to late for _him._ He was Milton Startley. He could drive into the sunrise if he wanted to.

Milton Startley continued to follow the road, lit only by the one flickering headlight. He looked to his right, out the passenger side window. In the pale moonlight he could just see the Friendship Cemetery hidden between the dyeing trees of the woods and the sharp points of the rusting gate. He shivered. While Milton Startley had never been afraid of much, he had always been afraid of cemeteries. Cemeteries meant dead people. Dead people meant ghosts. And if there was one thing Milton Startley hated, it was ghosts.

He tried to forget the cemetery for a moment and instead decided to look at the road again. After all, Milton Startley was an excellent driver.

But as he turned his attention back to the road, the yellow lines and cracking asphalt barely visible in the flickering headlight, he saw something flash pat his range of vision and head to the center of the road.

He hit the horn and the brakes at the same time. _Move._ He thought to himself. The thing never did move. But the truck did.

WHUMP

Milton Startley felt the crash and the face of his Mac truck hit the thing. He slammed on the brakes harder until he finally roll to a stop about 20 feet from the entrance of the graveyard. With a hand large enough to be a baseball glove, Milton Startley rolled down the driver side window and looked out. But in the dark of the early morning nothing was visible. He rolled up his window and looked up again, staring into the road ahead, light only by one flickering headlight and wondering if he should get out and check what he had hit.

But after a moment all he did was shrug and push down on the gas.

"Dumb deer." Said Milton Startley as he finally reached 100 mph.


End file.
